The Witch's Keeper - A Bamon Fanfic
by AlexaIsAMessa
Summary: The birth of a baby Bonnie Bennett brings something dark and evil into this world, and with her turning twenty-one, the protection spell her recently deceased grandmother had placed on her is beginning to fade. The only one that can help her? The Keeper of the Bennett Witch line, famous vampire, Damon Salvatore. The only problem? Bonnie knows nothing of the supernatural world.
1. When Darkness Is Born

***I own nothing.***

 **Extended Summary:** **Damon Salvatore always keeps his promises _, and when he promised to keep Shelia Bennett's granddaughter safe from the evil and dark forces that have been hunting the witches family line, he knows this will either end two ways: destruction or salvation. He just doesn't know which one will conquer. But when Shelia dies and the protection spell that had been placed on her granddaughter begins to wear off, Damon has no other choice but to step out of the shadows from where's been hiding these past twenty-one years and face the strongest and last witch of her line, Bonnie Bennett. The only issue with this? Bonnie doesn't know the supernatural exists...well, at least not until it shows up in the form of a pale, blue-eyed, dark haired vampire knocking on her front door._**

* * *

 **TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO**

Damon knew something was wrong when he got the twisting feeling in his gut, the kind that made his teeth grind together and his head spin, the world around him twirling in circles. It had happened one night when he was out at bar throwing back a couple of drinks. The bartender stood behind the counter Damon sat at, if it weren't for the fact he had compelled him to keep pouring what was rest of the Bourbon that was sitting in a half-emptied bottle, he would've been cut off by now. But that would only happen if he were human. Which he is not.

When the Bourbon got boring and he couldn't stand the music the band was playing in the corner of the bar, he hopped off the stool, not bothering to pay and decided to find...something more interesting to drink. And he knew exactly what he wanted.

Sitting around in a booth with her friends, was a blonde with her hair tied up high in a ponytail, breasts practically bursting out of the tight, lacy, hot pink tank top she wore under her black leather jacket that almost matched his. Her shirt was matched with a blue jean skirt, that when she bent down, showed off her spectacular ass cheeks. Damon hadn't meant to be looking but when he came back from the washroom, wiping the fresh blood that he had sucked from the neck of one of the band members—the drummer, who had also been junkie (what a waste of a perfectly good body)—covered his upper lip with his hand, he had noticed.

Before even walking over to the table, he had heard with his abnormal supernatural hearing, about how the friends of the blonde kept talking about this guy that she just couldn't stop looking it. And what a coincidence that the description of this particular man happened to match him.

Pale? Check.

Blue-eyed? Check.

Tall, dark, and handsome? Check, check, and oh honey, double check on that last one.

The eyes on all of the blonde's friends faces widen in both shock and excitement, a reaction that Damon was very familiar with—along with terror, sadness, and anger. A smirk pulls at his lips as he asks the entire group, "What are you ladies up to?"

And just like that, they were all putty in his hands. But his attention was mostly focused on the blonde—her name, as Damon had discovered, being 'Jessica'—sitting beside him, the one that had caught his eye. Like he had expected, she twirls a strand of her hair around her finger, leaning forward just enough to where her boobs were grazing his leather covered arm. His eyes gaze flickers from Jessica's baby blue eyes down to his arm, and he couldn't deny the fact that his gums were beginning to ache, the beast inside of him wanting nothing more than to sink his teeth into that pretty little neck of hers.

But before he even got the chance to ask if she wanted to go somewhere quieter his stomach started churning, and Damon knew all too well what was about to come next. Excusing himself from the table, trying not to cause a scene, he pushes his way through the crowded bar, the dance floor flooded with numerous strangers dancing—well, more like stumbling around drunk and wasted girls grinding their ass into the junk of men they probably didn't even remember the name of. The entire bar reeked of booze, sweat, drugs, and the sweet smell of sex. Four things that Damon was very familiar with, and was very, _very_ fond of.

But in this moment, as he trips over his own feet as he exits the bar and has to use the wall of the building to steady himself, a piercing pain is emitted into his skull, spreading throughout his entire body, and causing him drop down to his knees with his hands clasped tightly on either side of his head as, for moment, he thought it might pop off. The churning in his gut that he had purposely ignored, hoping it was just a false alarm, had gone away, but its disappearance had sent a surge of vomit rushing up his throat in its place. Not even a minute later is puke comes spewing out of his mouth, falling onto the ground in a red pile near his knees.

"Fuck," he groans, and on shaky feet, standing up slowly as another wave of nausea hits him and he's bent over with his hands on his knees. He had known this had been coming sooner or later, had heard the news a few months back. Hell, he'd even been trying to keep with up it, calling to check it in and making sure everything was okay.

He just didn't know it was going to be happening _right now_.

"Son of a bitch," he grumbles, blinking a couple of times to get rid of the dizziness and the black dots that danced in his vision, now just realizing what they meant for him.

Another Bennett witch to watch over.

...That's just great.

And Damon could've just turned around and walked back into that bar, had his way with the blonde, got his midnight snack and gone back to what he'd like to call his definition of 'normal'—if you could even count being a five-hundred-year-old vampire normal. But, even though he was a selfish, manipulative asshole who threw tantrums (or what he liked to refer these... _tantrums_ as 'episodes') he always keeps his promises.

Especially when it came to the Bennett's.

With that being said, he owed one of them, in particular, a gigantic favor.

Though he could come off as stupid sometimes, Damon had enough brains to know not to piss off Shelia Bennett unless he, you know, wanted to be skinned alive. And he wasn't exactly in the mood for feeling the witch's wrath. So, instead of doing what he wanted to do, he marches his ass down the sidewalk and to his blue Camero, jamming the keys in the slot and listening in satisfaction as the engine roared to life.

 _Here I come Mystic Falls._

* * *

He arrives in Mystic Falls, Virginia in little under six hours.

He would've been here sooner if the visions that danced in his line of vision hadn't blocked his view of the road, making it hard to concentrate, he would've got to Mystic Falls faster. But safety first and all that jazz. The closer he got the small town the more the less he saw of the visions. The first one had been one of the milder ones. At first, all he had seen was the concrete road ahead of him, with a light yellow glow due to his headlights flashing, but then, suddenly, out of nowhere is he hit with the image of Shelia's daughter, Abby, sitting on the couch, bent over as she rubs her swollen stomach. Instantly, he knew (and not only from the visions or the vomiting) that Abby was going to labor. No surprise there. But then he had heard Shelia yelling, shouts incoherent, but Damon was able to catch onto a few words and was smart enough to know to fill in the blanks.

Such as: _"It's too early!", "She shouldn't be coming yet!", "Let's get you to the hospital!"_

He discovered through the visions that Abby was having a little baby girl. Somehow, at the mention of the gender, the corners of his lips twitched. He had always wanted a sister but instead got stuck with an annoying younger brother who had nothing better to do than save people and gel up that golden blonde hero hair of is. Just the mere thought of Stefan made Damon scoff. How come he got to the be the good brother and I get stuck being the bad one?

 _How come he got to the be the good brother and I get stuck being the bad one?_

Damon already knew the answer to that and pushed that thought all the way to the back of his head. This wasn't about him nor his brother. This was about Shelia, her daughter, and the baby girl—and if his last and final vision had been correct, then that exact same baby girl that he'd been seeing for the past six hours would be entering the world any minute now.

And he was just glad that he had enough time to park his car and race through the hospital, not even having to check with the receptionist at the office because he already knew where the two witches were. All he had to do was a shut his eyes for a quick second a and listen—listen for their heartbeats, the sound of their breathing, the sound of—

"Did I miss it?"

Damon didn't even have to open the door, he kind of just stumbled into it and it...opened? He hadn't been looking for any attention, but when multiple pairs of eyes land on him, he suddenly felt self-conscious. There was something called 'too much attention'. Ignoring the stares, he walks over to where Shelia stands at her daughter's bedside, holding her hand. His gaze flickers over to the doctors and nurses who were still looking at him and he narrows his eyes, ordering, "What the hell are you looking? Don't look at me. Look. At. Her."

...Okay, so he might've used just a little, practically a sprinkle, of compulsion to get their head's to turn back towards their patient.

He notices, not even missing a beat, the moment Abby glances over at him. Strands of her curly black hair are plastered to the sides of her forehead, face contorted into one of a mixture of pain and excitement and a hint of fear. She's dressed a blue hospital gown, legs separated and propped up high, and an IV hooked up to her arm. Damon could just visibly see the tear tracks that ran down her cheeks and few that lingered, clouding her vision. None of this surprised him. He had witnessed numerous births before, had even helped his mother back when Stefan was born.

But most, and all, experience had come with the lovely packaged that came with watching over the Bennett witch line. And like many others of her family, Abby holds out her free hand for him to take and he, using a bit of his super speed, flashes over to her left side and grips her hand tight. She squeezes back just as hard as the doctor between her legs tells her all she needs to do is push one more time. But it didn't seem like Abby wanted too, the young, caramel skinned woman too exhausted to even want to consider the option.

His eyebrows furrow together. He heard the doctors words ring in his ears.

 _"One more push."_

Although Damon wasn't a nice guy—everyone knew that—he had a certain soft spot for the Bennett's. If anyone were to something to them, to hurt them, he would snap their necks, rip their heart out. In this situation, you could say he hated seeing Abby in pain like this but knew that the reason wasn't because someone was punishing her, but because she was simply giving birth; bring a new life into this world. He had known Abby for years, having entered her life at the tender age of fifteen. And ten years later, with her lying in this hospital bed, made her twenty-five. She one of the strongest, bravest, and smartest women he knows. Next to her grandmother, of course, whose birth he had also witnessed. It made the old hag—who wasn't actually a hag at all, despite her being in her mid-forties was still as beautiful as the day he met her, which was when she was twenty-seven—grumble, but would soon make her laugh, joking about how he was older than her, and even though immortal, was the ugliest man she's ever laid eyes on. The joke, sometimes, had him laughing as well.

"Come on, Ab's," he whispers into her ear, slipping a wet strand behind it. "Just one more push and you get to see your little girl. Don't you want that?"

She's silent for a moment, breathing heavily, but looks up at him after a minute, her brown eyes, the same color as dark chocolate, lock with his blue ones. Abby doesn't even have to say anything for him to understand, he just nods, giving her a smile.

"You got this," he tells her, planting a soft kiss on her forehead, and feeling the grip Abby had on his hand tighten, fingernails digging into his skin as she lets out an ear-piercing scream that causes the lights to flicker on and off.

And with that scream, follows another, but this time, it doesn't come from Abby's mouth but instead, her daughter's.

The birth of Bonnie Shelia Bennett is symbolized with a strike of lightning that runs a streak across the night sky, thunder crackling and causes the power to shut off for a minute before turning back on. Even if he's seen similar stuff like this happen, it's not every day you get to witness something special happen without even realizing it. Because, without anyone's knowledge that they wouldn't discover until months later, is that the birth of a the last member of the Bennett witch line was born but so was something dark. A dangerous force that was forever tethered to this little baby girl that was curled up in a blanket in her mother's arms and was the only person who could stop it.

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 **A/N: Hello! I hope you liked the chapter. Please leave a review if you did!**


	2. As Her Magic Emerges

**A/N** **: Hi!**

 **I had someone on Tumblr point this out for me the other day and I would just like to point this out: There are some Dabby [Damon+Abby] moments. Not exactly romantic, but not totally platonic either. The reason for these moments—which will be shown in flashbacks throughout the first or entire story— is to give some background on the plot. Also, please leave a review! Would be greatly appreciated.**

* * *

 **PRESENT DAY: Bonnie's POV**

"Bonnie! Hurry up!"

The sound of her roommate yelling did nothing but cause Bonnie to slow down the process of putting her mascara on. Although it would piss Caroline—said roommate's name—off, it only made her smirk. Her shoulder length black hair was blown dry from the wet tangled mess the shower had created, then brushed through, straightened, and finally, curled at the ends to give it some volume.

Usually, out of the two of them, she was the one who got ready the fastest, being that she grew up a tomboy, but as she grew up had discovered the power of curling iron, make-up, and what good set of heels could do for her self-confidence. Then, you had Caroline—you're stereotypical over cheery and full of hope blonde, who had been a cheerleader in high school and prom queen. But the blonde also had a knack of spreading her legs open and getting into trouble with the wrong people, but that was another story for another day.

"I'm coming!" she yells back, setting down the tube of mascara and actually, although she had been standing in front of it for the past thirty minutes, for the first time, looked at herself in the mirror. As stated before, she usually only took about ten to fifteen minutes to get ready on a good day, but today was different. Today was the day she had been dreading for the past two weeks since she had gotten the news.

Today was her grams funeral. And tomboy or not, she was going to put on her best dress, hold back the tears that had been threatening to fall and keep her head high. Because as Shelia Bennett had always told her, Bonnie had to stay strong.

When she finally exited the bathroom, donning a black dress that went down two inches past her knee caps, a light red shale, and a pair of heels, she instantly came face-to-face with her roommate slash best friend, Caroline. The blonde was wearing something similar, except her dress was mid-thigh high, sleeveless, and lacy. The only thing missing was a set of heels, but were replaced by gray flats.

Caroline stared at her friend, giving her a small smile as she grabbed Bonnie's hand and squeezed it tightly. It gave Bonnie a sense of comfort and caused her chin to quiver as her vision began to blur, but before the tears that threatened to fall could do any real damage to the make-up she had spent an hour doing, she wipes them away with a quick swipe of her thumb. Her grip on Caroline's hand tightens, knowing that if she let go, she might fall and break. Because if she weren't there, and she wasn't holding her hand, Bonnie probably would've lost all sense of reality.

"You ready to go?" Caroline asks, raising a filled in eyebrow.

Bonnie only shrugs. "As ready as I'll ever be."

 _Let's get this over with._

* * *

As soon as Bonnie had entered the church, she was ambushed by a flock of people, each one with tears in their eyes and tissue in hand. They all had something to tell her, but the most common sayings she heard were:

 _"I'm so sorry for your loss."_

 _"Shelia was an amazing woman."_

She appreciated it, really. And had thanked everyone, forcing a smile onto her lips and shaking hands before she had grabbed onto Caroline's arm and practically begged while whispering in her ear, "Get me the hell out of here." Bonnie had meant that they should leave the building, but it seemed that Caroline had gotten the wrong message and ordered for the people surrounding her to move out of the way and dragged Bonnie to sit down at one of the benches. She wanted to yell, to scream that they should turn back, her anxiety eating her alive.

A painful headache was forming, causing pressure to build behind her eyes and she knew, sooner or later, that not eating anything for breakfast except for an apple would catch up to her; she just hadn't known it would in the form of a migraine that was piercing her skull. Bonnie didn't know what it was, she had never had a migraine this bad, but the closer Caroline dragged her—being that next of kin had to sit up at the front near the stage where the choir would stand and sing—to her grams' coffin, the more her head hurt.

At some point, without even noticing, a nose bleed had begun forming. It was an a middle aged lady that was sitting behind her—hair the exact same color of carrots, eyes a dark green, and skin pale—that had noticed the trail of blood leaking from her nose. She had offered Bonnie a tissue from a small packet of kleenex that she had kept in her purse, an overly concerned look on her face. Taking the tissue and thanking the woman, she had turned back around and wiped the blood away, a small part of her wondering why the woman had looked so worried about her, but she shrugged it off.

Before going to the graveyard where she'd have to see her the casket her grams was lying in—the casket Bonnie had spent hours trying to decide which one she liked before she had grown tired of staring at the magazine and closed her eyes, twirled her finger and whatever casket her finger landed on she'd go with—there had been a reception at the church to honor all that Shelia did for the community of Mystic Falls.

Which left Mayor Lockwood standing up behind the podium at the front of the church with everyone facing the older man.

He had a list of things that he talked about, namely all the good that Shelia had done for her fellow townsfolk, and a speech to finish it all off before everyone headed to their cars— _"I didn't know her all that well, but she taught me a lot. She was a great mentor and an inspiration to those she met. It's a shame to have lost such a kind, beautiful soul and she will be missed."_

It was no surprise to Bonnie to see some of the college students her grandmother had taught at Whitmore University—she actually knew most of them by name—but what came as a shock is when her eyes land on a mysterious man she didn't recognize at the burial.

As everyone is standing around the Oak casket an hour later, her surrogate Uncle, Alaric Saltzman, starts reciting some of the words he had written down on a piece of paper, his niece, and nephew standing a few feet away from as his wife, Jenna, had her arm linked through with his. When Alaric couldn't get the rest of what was written down out in words, Jenna took over, grabbing the paper out of her husband's hands and finishing what he had to say for him. Bonnie didn't know what it was, but something about the family gave her bad feeling. And somehow, she had found herself at one point or another consoling Jenna's niece, Elena Gilbert, as she cried hysteria. They were what one might call 'acquaintances'. But it was actually Caroline who knew Elena best, seeing as the two had been on the same cheer squad together back in high school.

It's only when somebody asks if she wants to say something before the casket is to be lowered, does Bonnie pay any attention to what is going on around her.

Her head snaps upward, her eyes scanning the large crowd of people surrounding her and suddenly, she felt like she was back in school and the teacher had called on her. Her heart starts to beat a little faster, anxiety rushing over her like a tidal wave. She could feel her stomach begin to churn at just the thought of having to open her mouth because she knew if she did, the only thing that would come out of it would be vomit. And nobody wanted to see that.

Blinking rapidly, she tries to come up with something— _fucking anything_ —to say, but her mind draws a blank.

 _Shit, shit, shit!_

Bonnie knew she was screwed by the way everyone was looking at her, all eyes falling in her specific direction, eyebrows raised in curiosity and the air filled with anticipation as everyone waited for her to talk. The word 'terrified' was the only thing that came to mind with everyone staring at her, and she knew they were getting annoyed that this girl had the nerve to freeze up when they all had things to do and didn't have all day to do them.

She knew she was holding everyone up (she never had been one for crowds). It was true she had written something in preparation for her grams' funeral, but when she tried to write down how she felt, the words became jumbled and turned in squiggly lines instead of actual senteces—and one time, the paper she had been writing on lit on fire, something Bonnie couldn't explain and was going to blame on the candle she had knocked over a second later.

Why? You might ask. Well...blaming it on the candle seemed like a better explanation, than trying to explain to her therapist that she had somehow made paper light on fire. That and Bonnie didn't feel like being locked up in a nut-house for the rest of her life.

And just as she goes to open her mouth to say something, someone cuts her to it. Bonnie's eyes dart from the casket to where the voice had come from, and standing there, behind everyone, was a man dressed in not a tux like he should've been, but a pair of black denim jeans, a black Henley, and a black leather jacket that went perfectly with his black boots.

 _Who is he?_ She asked herself, silently and in her head as she stared at the man in wonder, listening to his every word.

"...You could say Shelia and I we're...friends, but in a way, she had also been family."

* * *

 **Damon's POV**

Damon hated funerals.

He hated how much everyone was crying and that these occasions were always so sad. But what he hated more was the fact that Shelia Bennett was being lowered into the ground, body in the coffin that her granddaughter, Bonnie, had picked. It made him angry, that something so little as cancer had taken down the almighty witch. It was ironic in a way—even made Damon laugh when he thought about all the monsters Shelia had fought and won against, but was, in the end, it was some disease that had her lying dead in a casket. He had been standing

He had been standing off to the side, behind everyone, not wanting to attract too much attention as he stood leaning against an Evergreen tree, listening to the most pathetic speech he's ever heard come from a man that reeked of alcohol. Damon could smell the whiskey on him even from ten feet away. It filled the air, along with the scent of pine trees, death, and depression (that is if you _can_ smell depression?). Although, he couldn't be one to judge. There was flask full of Bourbon in his back pocket, half full because he had been drinking it throughout the reception back at the church where he hid near the doors, keeping on eye on things.

The only reason he had come out from hiding was because he respected Shelia enough and, believe it or not, she had been his...friend. Sort've. Kind of. Maybe. Actually, Damon had no fucking clue what the woman was supposed to be to him, seeing as she had spent most of her time when he'd drop by in the middle of the night or call lecturing him about something that was _completely_ irrelevant to the topic at hand—okay, even that last bit had his eyes rolling and he could just imagine Shelia rolling over in her grave. Damon knew why she lectured him, smack him over the head one-too-many times when he said something stupid. He just didn't want to believe it.

...He didn't want to believe that Shelia had...cared about him.

It made it harder to accept the fact that she was dead and besides her daughter, Abby, the only friend he's ever had was her. It made it harder for him when he thought about when he said goodbye a little too late after she had taken her last breath. He had been there, in her house, sitting on a chair by her bedside holding her hand. Shelia had always yelled at him to leave her alone and never come back. She had questioned him numerous times about why he was still there after she had told him to go.

She hated his odd friendship with her daughter and how Abby might've been the only thing, the only person, they'd ever been on the same page about. In the end, Shelia didn't want to believe the blood sucking vampire actually had a heart—a still would-never-beat-again and cold heart, but still a heart never-the-less—and that he cared about her, either.

And admittedly, other than coming here for Shelia, Damon couldn't give a damn about the funeral. He'd been sipping from his flask when the drunk's wife—he was pretty sure, from what he had overheard from the whispering of other's back at the church, that the red haired woman's name was Jenny...No, _Jenna_ and her husband name (a.k.a the stumbling drunk) was Alaric—was done finishing off her speech does Damon put his attention on something else.

Or rather, _somebody_ else.

When somebody—a bulky guy ( _'boy'_ would be the better the term) with short, choppy brown hair that hung in his eyes—suddenly asks if Shelia's grandmother wanted to add something before they lowered the casket. Only one word enters Damon's mind.

 _Bonnie._

Damon's eyes dart up and over to where the short girl stood. She was dressed in a black attire much like everyone else, but with her shoulder-length black hair curled at the ends and minimal make-up on. Her forest green eyes didn't hold that certain brightness to them like they usually did. No. Instead, the only thing they sparkled with was sadness and tears—both of which she was holding back from showing to the rest of the world. After watching over her for so many years, Damon could almost read her like a book, except some chapters hadn't been written yet and other's had been torn out. But there was one other thing he had noticed when had walked by her twenty minutes ago upon entering the cemetery.

...It was that was subtle buzzing energy that her body was emitting. He didn't understand it at first, what the buzzing was, but it hadn't taken him long to figure it out. And when Damon had, it sent a surge of panic through him, heading straight for his dead heart. He knew this buzzing all too well—because, this 'buzzing' wasn't buzzing at all. It was actually Bonnie's magic slowly rising to the surface, coming alive after so many years of being dormant. He knew what would happen if she doesn't find out the truth.

From personal experience and a front row seat, Damon had only witnessed it once, but if a witch's magic—something that's so pure and raw and full of life—is forced down for too long it will build like a volcano...and well, as volcano's do when too much pressure builds, they explode. And he could feel that energy again, but slightly stronger than last time. It attracted his attention, made it almost impossible for him to take his eyes off of her. The part of him that was made up of magic, the piece of him that made it so he was able to live an immortal life for eternity, was drawn to Bonnie—more specifically, her magic.

It took him a minute to figure out why she was buzzing with magic and then it came to him. The only explanation for why she reeked of anxiety and looked like she was ready to puke.

 _Shelia._

After realizing that the pressure to say something was practically eating her alive, Damon—relucantly—slips his flask back into his back pocket and steps forward, opening his mouth—and regretting it the second the words, the pathetic eulogy he had been writing his head since the moment he found out about Shelia's condition, came pouring off his tongue.

"...You could say Shelia and I we're...friends, but in a way, she had also been family." He began, feeling more than a few pairs of eyes on him, burning a hole into the side of his skull. Damon didn't dare look around, feeling nervous all of sudden (and he rarely ever gets _nervous_ ) and just kept his eyes on the closed casket in the ground. "None of you know me, and honestly, the only reason I'm here is because Shelia was one of those rare few who has—sorry, I mean _had_ —my respect. Although she was a giant pain in my ass, I would do anything to have just one more phone call with her, even if she was lecturing me about not doing anything stupid...or reckless...basically, just yelling at me not to do what my instincts are telling me. She...was a hell raiser that woman, and I wouldn't doubt for a second that every time she got out of bed, the Devil would be scared shit less—and if I've learned anything from Shelia it's that A) you never want to get on her bad side, and B) there's always a choice...a good one or a bad one. The thing is, you'll never know which one is which until you're staring the consequences of your actions dead in the eye. So, before I say my final goodbye to her, I only have one thing to share with you all: she wouldn't want you standing around here and crying."

He would've just left it there, but before taking it off, Damon grabs the flask from him back pocket, unscrews the top and holds it up in the air and then bring it down to his lips, taking a long swig, the Bourbon burning the back of his throat. "To Shelia! You'll be missed, old friend."

The last thing he sees before zooming away is a tearful Bonnie Bennett and the confused expression that has taken over her facial features.

 _...Until next time._

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 **A/N: Hello! Please leave a review if you enjoyed this chapter!**


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